


Ton Sang et Mes Sanglots

by UnLibrePenseur



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: M/M, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnLibrePenseur/pseuds/UnLibrePenseur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The court of the Holy Roman Emperor is split into factions between the old blood and the new blood--the traditionalists and the progressivists--the vampires and the humans. And when Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart comes to court, Maestro Antonio Salieri's jealousy and need for revenge gets the better of him--but so do all the hours he spends privately composing with Mozart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a couple of things; the first being fanfiction, the second being a vampire story. I don't actually like vampires, but I just couldn't resist when my friend gave me the idea, and of course I am just in love with MOR, so I figured why not. Here's hoping it's not too bad! Bisous--!

The moon seemed to drift across the eternal black of the night sky, passing behind clouds of silver and silhouetted branches to Salieri’s bleary eyes and muddled mind. The lines of reality blurred as his eyes unfocused and refocused, and he felt painfully nauseated, and he could not move—every part of his body felt numb and therefore unresponsive, and his brain felt jammed. He closed his eyes, and swallowed the rising lump in his throat and waited for this sensation to pass—this sensation of dying. Behind his lids, he saw it all again: the gleam of the knife in the candle light, the fierce pain in his wrists and his throat, and Rosenberg… He gasped and opened his eyes, sitting up in a panic.  
Light peeked through a crack in the heavy maroon curtains that covered the windows of Salieri’s bedroom, and though it was but a thin stream of light, he blinked profusely, for it felt blinding. Shaking his head, he pushed back the covers and got out of bed to get ready for the day. Upon opening his wardrobe, a piece of parchment fluttered out, and he caught it with one hand, wondering what it was.  
"Maestro Salieri," …it said…  
"Doubtless you hardly remember the events of last night as but a dream, if at all. This is normal. Therefore, it is my duty to offer you several precautions to take until such time as we meet and I can explain everything to you. Please, follow these instructions without question or hesitation.  
Firstly, do not open the curtains. If you need light, use a candle.  
Secondly, wear your darkest clothing today—not your mourning suit, of course, that would be inappropriate.  
Thirdly, do not try to eat anything.  
Fourthly, on your way to the palace today, take a coach, and go directly from door to coach to door, and do so as quickly as possible.  
Fifthly, find me as soon as you get to the palace. I should be in his Imperial Majesty’s audience hall.  
Sincerely,  
Rosenberg"  
Salieri stared at the letter for a long while before remarking to himself that the second step should be of little difficulty, considering he only owned dark clothing. “Who does he take me for—Mozart, with his flamboyant costumes?” He muttered, taking a black vest and a dark grey overcoat from the wardrobe. He tossed aside the crinkled blouse he had on, and caught sight of the mud stain on the back. 'How long has that been there?' He asked himself, scandalized by the thought that he may have been wearing a ruined shirt around the emperor’s palace for some time without knowing it. 'Well, no one has mentioned it…' He reasoned, compartmentalizing the issue as (mostly) unimportant. In shifting through his drawers for a clean blouse, though, he noticed something that certainly made his dirty shirt seem trivial: he saw the cuts on his arms. Two long slices from wrist to elbow on both, following his veins. Jesus Christ. He could only stare. 'I wasn’t drunk, was I?'  
No. The answer was no. Of course he wasn’t, because he did not drink.  
'Did I do it in my sleep?'  
Probably. It must have been; he remembered flashes of his dream: a knife, pain, blood. That must have been it. He sighed, running his hands viciously through his long hair, pulling on it in frustration. Ever since that Mozart had come to court Salieri had been a mess, filled with self-doubt, constantly degrading his own talents whilst admiring Mozart’s. Salieri looked at himself in the mirror across the room and sighed again. The dark circles under his eyes grew more and more pronounced with each passing day, and he was sure he looked paler than yesterday… 'I look as terrible as he makes me feel… As I make me feel.'  
He turned determinedly away from the mirror and picked out a blouse—one with the most frill possible at the base of the sleeves to obscure his wrists if they should peek out from under the sleeves. Salieri checked himself once in the mirror as he tied his cravat, making sure his hair was neat and his jacket straight, making sure he looked court appropriate. Not bad, considering the night I must have had…  
Just the scent of food cooking in his kitchen made Salieri want to wretch, so he took Rosenberg’s third point of advice and left with all haste. However, he failed to take Rosenberg’s fourth point of advice by having his coach called to come to his door; instead, he fell into routine and went to the coach house like every morning. Usually he enjoyed the short walk through his garden, especially in late autumn when the trees had neared the end of their change and fallen leaves carpeted the ground or fell down around him; not this morning. The sun felt absurdly bright for some reason, and Salieri squinted to the point of his eyes being fully closed, weaving his way slowly to the coach house. By the time he reached the dark shed, a headache had begun to pound in his right temple.  
“Good morning, Maestro,” said the coachman upon Salieri’s entrance.  
“Is it?” Salieri grumbled, pressing on his temple, as though that would make it top hurting. “Can we go?”  
“Yes, sir.” The coachman opened the door for Salieri.  
As the carriage dipped under the weight of the coachman climbing to his post, Salieri closed the curtains and his eyes and rested his head against the wall. 'Today is not going to be fun,' he thought. The carriage bumped to a start and he hit his head, worsening his headache, and he cursed.  
When they reached the emperor’s palace, Salieri squeezed his eyes shut and prepared himself for the sun. It didn’t seem as bad as before; probably some light cloud coverage, but he didn’t really care to stop and check. He made a beeline for the palace doors, jogging up the steps and entering the palace with a nod to the doormen. Inside, he blinked several times, straightening his overcoat. Better. But he still had a headache. 'Better find out what Rosenberg wants,' he thought, turning his steps to the imperial audience chambers, his headache pulsing.  
The emperor was apparently not up yet, for there was no ceremony to Salieri’s entrance. Even so, all of the emperor’s attendants filled the room and waited about for his imperial majesty, and Salieri picked out Rosenberg easily. He walked over, a few heads following him in his path, many nodding respectfully at him. 'Did they always do that?' He wondered as he approached Rosenberg, bowing. “I received your message,” he said in low tones.  
“And?”  
“And now you can tell me the rest.”  
“Did you do what I told you to?”  
“Almost.”  
“Almost?”  
“They were not difficult instructions to follow.”  
“Yet you only almost followed them.”  
“Well, I walked to my carriage.”  
Rosenberg closed his eyes, and Salieri suspected that behind the lids he was rolling his eyes. “Anything else?”  
“No—and stop asking me questions. I’m the one who should be asking questions!” Salieri glanced around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation.  
“Do you even know what to ask?”  
“No, so just explain.”  
Rosenberg looked to his right at one of the newer nobles of the court and said, “Let us walk.” And with that he quitted the room with Salieri hurrying to catch up. 'Twitchy little man,' the composer thought in irritation, his headache pounding again.  
Salieri followed Rosenberg down a long hall away from the audience chamber, their footsteps and the count’s walking stick echoing slightly in the space. They slipped into a side-chamber that appeared to have no use, and Rosenberg shut the door. When he turned around to face Salieri, the composer had his arms crossed and a stern look on his face. “What is going on, Rosenberg?”  
“This isn’t a conversation to have around people,” said the count conspiratorially.  
“And why not?”  
“Because not all of them are involved.”  
“And what is it exactly that I am involved in unknowingly?”  
“Oh, don’t worry—you know. You made the decision.”  
The headache throbbed behind Salieri’s eyes and the realisation hit him. He took a step away from Rosenberg while asking, “Did I…? Do what I think I did? Am I…?” His hands went up to his mouth without thinking about it. Did his canines feel sharper or was he just imagining it?  
“Yes, and take your hands out of your mouth you look ridiculous.” Rosenberg hit Salieri with his stick. “You know we don’t have sharp teeth.”  
Salieri folded his arms again and nodded slowly. Good. A little feeling of triumph bloomed in his chest. He was one of the elite ranks of courtiers in the Emperor’s court, and Mozart was not. He cackled quietly. Yes, now that frivolous little man would have nothing over on Salieri, who was in with the oldest nobles, the ones closest to the emperor. 'There’s no more competition, no question that his new creative style will no longer dominate this court!' There was a part of him that felt bad for jeopardizing Mozart’s career like this and ridding the court of such beautiful music, but it was too late to turn back now, and this is what Mozart got for not following the rules.  
“Yes, so you are a vampire now. I will, of course, have to point out our members to you, and don’t forget that we are supposed to be secret—“  
“Do you take me for an imbecile, Rosebnberg?”  
“So about feeding,” the count ploughed on, glaring at Salieri, “make sure not to actually kill the person—and don’t be seen.”  
Salieri rolled his eyes as though that much had been obvious—and the latter had been, but he had never seriously considered the conundrum of his necessary sustenance now being human blood. 'No killing… that’s how they’ve managed to avoid detection.'  
“Well?”  
“Well?”  
“Don’t you want to know about the ceremony?”  
Salieri tugged at his sleeves again to make sure his cuts were covered. “I think I can imagine how it went.”  
“That’s right, I forget you’re not a complete imbecile like some of the other courtiers—you do such a good job acting like them.”  
Salieri gave Rosenberg a sarcastic look. “You’re such a charming person.”  
The count straightened his jacket and said, “Shall we?” motioning with his walking stick to the door.  
“After you, Rosenbeeeeeerg,” said Salieri.

It turned out that being a vampire at court was hardly more interesting than being any normal composer at court. Except that every now and then Salieri intercepted knowing looks from some of the other courtiers—noticeably all men from old family lineage—and many shook his hand discreetly in passing. It felt almost strange to be afforded so much attention after so many weeks of people positively fawning over Mozart. Just the thought made Salieri’s stomach roil with jealousy. He had been the prodigy of the court—the prized musician before young Mozart had shown up with his rule-breaking music and genius and blown them all away, taking everything that Salieri had worked so hard for. 'Well, now I’m getting it back,' he thought determinedly as he sat at the piano in a side-room, taking a break from the audience hall and the other courtesans. Besides himself, the room was completely empty and he was free to drop his air of propriety and give his thoughts free reign in the form of musical notes. He was in the middle of playing something that he thought may have had potential for a symphony when the door opened behind him. He didn’t stop, but he sat up a little straighter and assumed his regular air of cold distance.  
“That sounds really good.”  
Salieri almost missed a note when Mozart spoke, but he finished the measure like he didn’t care and then looked over his shoulder. “I was just messing around. Do you need something?”  
“No, I just heard you and thought I’d stop by.” Mozart just had his head stuck through the cracked-open door, but now he stepped fully inside. “May I offer a suggestion?”  
Salieri ground his teeth. He wanted to say no, that his music was perfectly good without Mozart’s intervention, that he was just as talented as Mozart at composing and he didn’t need Mozart’s help. But that would be rude, and he had to play nice at court. 'At least, I have to play nice on the surface,' he thought. He would have his revenge on Mozart soon now. So he scooted over on the piano bench and offered Mozart the spot.  
The young composer sat down and started replaying the piece that Salieri had just made up with infuriating accuracy. Then he changed one of the chords the left hand played near the end, and kept the rest of the chords just half a note sharp—the harmony was perfect. Salieri hated to love it, and he would have loved to hate it. Mozart giggled, pulling Salieri out of his melancholy brooding. “I wasn’t sure whether that would sound good—I just thought I’d give it a try.”  
“Lucky shot, then,” Salieri muttered, picking up his quill and beginning to write out the melody. He got so lost in the notes in his head—so loud they may as well have been played out loud—that when he finished writing out the score and looked up, he almost fell off the piano bench he was so startled to see Mozart still there. “I thought you left?”  
Mozart smiled. “No. I haven’t got anywhere else to go, and I wanted to see if you’d take my suggestion.” He nodded at the paper and said, “I’m flattered that you did.”  
Salieri blushed in embarrassment. The last thing he wanted was for Mozart to know that he actually valued his input and genius—'and that I actually enjoy his music.' “It sounded good,” he muttered with as much grace as he could muster, gathering up the parchment and sticking it into his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me…”  
“Hang on,” Mozart said.  
Salieri lowered himself from his half standing position. “Yes?”  
“I want your opinion on something…” Mozart turned back to the piano and started playing. It was short, and new—apparently, though Salieri could not for the life of him figure out what it was supposed to be for. It was far simpler than anything he’d ever heard from Mozart before—no notes doing things some people hadn’t ever even thought of, or harmonizing in ways that made Salieri shiver. It was just music, simple, beautiful, music. When Mozart finished, Salieri stared at him.  
Mozart stared back.  
Salieri kept staring.  
So did Mozart.  
Then finally:  
“Well?”  
“Well what?”  
“You’re speechless. Good or bad?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“What?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“You’re not making any sense.”  
“You’ve never written anything like that before.”  
“I know, that’s why I wanted your opinion.”  
Salieri blinked. Why couldn’t he think of something to say about that piece?  
“So?”  
'Because it was not Mozart. It was the same old crap that everyone of mediocre talent produces that passes for music to those who do not truly know music. It is what you strive to avoid, and what Mozart excels at silencing. And now he has written it.' “When did you write this?”  
“Last night.”  
“Why?”  
“I have a commission, but…” Mozart bit his bottom lip and twiddled his thumbs, not meeting Salieri’s eyes. “But I have been having a lot of trouble writing for it... This is all I can think of so far. And, Salieri, you are a musician; I trust your judgement... So?” He glanced up through his lashes, his big brown eyes like a child’s.  
'He is a child…' Salieri thought. 'I should tell him. Tell him that he can do better. We all know it; even he knows it, or he wouldn’t be asking me—he’s too assured of his abilities to ask for help usually.' “It’s good. Keep working off of it, I think it could go somewhere good.” He said it with no emotion, hardly any interest, just the same cool, detached tone he used with everyone. Except he was very interested in this sudden alteration. And he used it to launch step two of his master-plan to get his fame back.


	2. Chapter 2

Salieri could still remember the first time he had ever heard Mozart’s music. It had been the first day of Mozart’s being at the Emperor’s court, having been personally called there by the Emperor to compose an opera. From the first time Salieri had lain eyes on Mozart, he knew that all the rumours about that man were true; how could they not be? Mozart was eccentric to the extreme from his unkempt hair to his outlandish style of dress to the way he seemed always to be smiling as he skipped about. He was bold in appearance and speech—after all, he had blatantly attacked Salieri and Rosenberg upon introduction to them—and his music was even more so. And Salieri relished in Mozart’s music. 

 

“Wait! Salieri, you are a musician. Please…” Mozart bowed, holding out sheet music. “Me, I don’t need that.” He marched off to the conductor’s place, adjusting his coat. He bowed to the chanteuse, purposely angling his back towards Salieri.  
‘How rude,’ Salieri thought contemptuously, looking down at the first measure. His breath caught at the rhythm that had been set up, the way the notes would go together, and then she started singing.  
“Traurigkeit war mir zum Lose…”  
Salieri was sure that his heart had stopped. Mozart had set up her voice and the music to meld so interestingly with each other, and his use of pauses were phenomenal—they surprised Salieri even though he had the music before him. He felt a strange emotion that he had never felt in all his life; affection—adoration—utter and complete jealousy. It stabbed him like a knife, right through his skin down to his heart, yet he did not want the music to stop—it was more beautiful than anything he had ever heard. ‘I love this… this… poison beyond reason,’ he thought, closing his eyes. He shivered at the harmony, trying to ignore the fact that this feeling came from Mozart, yet he couldn’t—how could he ignore that this prison of desire and been composed by that nutty Austrian? ‘I’m losing my mind,’ thought Salieri. ‘Cette musique est vraiment le bien qui fait mal.’  
Salieri opened his eyes when the singing stopped, slowly, and Mozart walked towards him, hands behind his back and a little triumphant smile upon his face. “Well, well, Maestro… Too many notes?”  
“Just remember your place, and all will be well between us,” Salieri said, handing Mozart back the music, his calm demeanor hiding the turmoil inside.

 

To this day, Salieri wasn’t quite sure how he had managed to appear so unaffected when Mozart had approached him afterwards, but he could still feel ripple effects of that first day every time he thought about it; Mozart’s music was sublime.  
'So why has it changed all of a sudden?' Salieri wondered, his right hand plucking meaninglessly at the strings of a violin as he sat in his living room before the hearth, staring into the crackling chaos of the flames. 'Why has he stopped being a genius?'  
He shook his head and set down the violin on the coffee table, getting up and making his way to his bedchamber. 'What does it matter? What matters is that now he’s just like the rest of them, and that will work perfectly to my advantage.'  
The bed sheets were cold after a long day of just sitting in the chilly air of the room, and Salieri welcomed the shock as he climbed in after undressing down to his shirt. But as he lay there, staring at the canopy over his bed, sleep did not find him; not even when the sheets warmed up and created a cocoon of heat. 'What is the matter with Mozart?' His mind would not shut up. That question circulated round and round, and of course he got no answer, and never would, because Mozart was none of his concern—they weren’t even friends, really. Just colleagues. Just composers who knew each other. Rivals, really. Mostly thanks to Salieri, but they were rivals nonetheless.  
Grumbling in frustration, Salieri got out of bed and started to pace his room, willing his mind to quiet so he could sleep and escape the damned questions that kept him awake. 'What cruel irony,' he thought, pulling on trousers and making his way downstairs to the living room where the fire had been reduced to embers and his violin still sat on the table. He picked it up and plucked at some strings, but all it did was remind him of Mozart and how there must be something wrong with him. Salieri all but threw the instrument onto his chair, finally ceasing in his pacing.  
'I could just go and ask Mozart what’s wrong.' Salieri facepalmed. “Yes, I’ll go strolling up to his door in the waning hours of the night to have a pleasant little chat with him about why his music isn’t up to its usual annoying standard. And perhaps he’ll invite me in for tea while he tells me all about his problems!” Salieri mimed holding a cup like a proper Brit, making a face and shaking his head at his own stupidity.  
Someone knocked on the door. Salieri paused in his pacing and stared in that direction. His porter had long since left for the evening, and that usually wasn’t a problem, considering no one visited Salieri late—well, no one really visited Salieri, he wasn’t known for being sociable. The person knocked again. Salieri walked slowly to the door and opened it.  
“Mozart?”  
“Salieri? I’m sorry to come so late, it’s just, things at the Weber’s are…ah…heated right now and… well…” He twiddled his thumbs, not looking up.  
Salieri sighed and said, “Come in. Shall I make us some tea?”  
Mozart mumbled his thanks, stepping past Salieri without looking at him. Salieri lead Mozart to the dining room down the dark hallway, lit a few candles, and left him at the table before going into the kitchen to boil water. As he stood over the kettle, waiting, he wondered at the fact that, in spite of his fame, Mozart really didn’t have many friends in Vienna. 'And I should be the last person he would want to turn to; it’s not like we are really on good terms or anything. Why not go to Lorenzo Da Ponte?' Just thinking about that traitor Italian made Salieri scowl, and part of him felt pleased that Mozart had come to him instead of going to Da Ponte.  
The kettle hissed and Salieri removed it, pouring it into the pot wherein he sprinkled tea-leaves. Then he gathered cups, saucers, spoons, sugar, and cream, and assembled them on a tray as he had seen his cook do hundreds of times for himself. Reentering the dining room, Salieri noticed that Mozart had gotten up and started to walk around the room—in fact, he leaned close to a candle sconce when Salieri walked in, apparently incredibly interested by the design. “Uh, Mozart?”  
The other composer looked over and smiled nervously at Salieri. “Ah! Yes, I was just admiring your decorations.” He walked back to the table, tentatively taking his seat and twiddling his thumbs again.  
Salieri poured the tea, almost spilling it twice because the bright purple coat Mozart wore was so distracting in the corner of his eye that he stopped paying attention to the tea. “Sugar? Cream?”  
Mozart shook his head, accepting the cup with another mumbled thanks, and Salieri poured cream in his own. They sat in silence, Mozart staring at his tea, Salieri staring at Mozart. Finally Salieri said, “So, why exactly are you at my house at this hour?”  
Mozart cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, I am sorry to intrude…” He trailed off, then set the cup down almost violently. “You know, I actually think I’ll be going. Thank you for the tea… Yes, thank you.” He stood up and bowed clumsily and then rushed off.  
'I have never seen him like this,' Salieri thought, watching Mozart leave with his head down. And it was that thought that saw Salieri chasing Mozart down the hall and saying, “Mozart, stay, I insist. It’s too late to get a coach, and too far to walk. It’s no bother, really.”  
Mozart turned around and glanced up at Salieri through his lashes like he had earlier that day. 'Child’s eyes.' “Are you sure?”  
“Yes. Please.” He gestured back to the dining room and followed Mozart there again. When the two composers sat once again in awkward silence at the table, Salieri wondered what could possibly have possessed him to chase down Mozart of all people and beg him to stay the night. 'Perhaps I ought to see a doctor?'  
“It’s Constance.”  
“What?”  
Mozart waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the door. “The reason I’m here. Frau Weber forced me to sign a marriage contract stating that I’ll wed Constance.”  
“Forced you to?” Salieri couldn’t help the condescending tone in his voice in spite of Mozart’s apparent depraved tone.  
“It was either that or pay an excessive sum to compensate for the…’damage’ I did to her daughter.”  
“’Damage’? She’s not a vegetable. Or a house.”  
Mozart glared. “Fine, the ‘honour I deprived her of’—is that better?”  
“Considerably so.” Salieri paused. “So, Frau Weber accused you of impugning her daughter’s honour and is forcing your to marry her.”  
Mozart nodded.  
Salieri sighed. He couldn’t help but think that it served Mozart right for acting the way he did with the girl; if he would just be appropriate for once in his life, he wouldn’t have these problems. 'But those aren’t very comforting things, so I really shouldn’t say them out loud.' Instead, he said, “Did this just happen?”  
“Last night.”  
“Is that why your music changed?”  
Mozart didn’t say anything, and Salieri glanced over at him. He was staring at his tea with a furrowed brow.  
“Mozart?”  
“I hadn’t thought of that.”  
“What?”  
“I hadn’t thought of that being a reason for my music to change.”  
“Oh, well… Traumatic events often have noticeable effects on our creative works,” Salieri said pathetically, thinking of how violent his own music had become since Mozart had come along.  
“Hang on—but you said my music wasn’t bad!”  
“Excuse me?”  
“You said that my music was good.”  
“Mozart, what does this have to do with this situation?”  
“My situation with Constance is terrible! And how can I write beautiful music when my own life is so…so…” He waved his hands in the air in front of him as he searched for the right word, which resulted in his knocking over his teacup and spilling the contents all over himself.  
Salieri sighed, grateful for an escape from what had been rapidly becoming a very awkward situation. When Mozart started to attempt cleaning up he said, “Leave it. Come with me.”  
He took Mozart up to his personal chambers and shifted through his wardrobe to find a shirt and trousers for him. “You can wear these.”  
Salieri didn’t bother to look at Mozart as he handed over the clothes and left the room to clean up the mess. He didn’t want to see the grateful or nervous or depressed or whatever look on Mozart’s face, because he didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that he was being nice to Mozart. Mozart. Of all people. He questioned his sanity the entire time he spent doing a mediocre cleaning job, and didn’t stop until he was back in the room with Mozart, who was now wearing almost exactly what Salieri was. And he looked so much better than he did when he wore all those bright colours. 'What? No, where did that thought come from?' Salieri asked himself, eyeing the skin just above the top buttons—which Mozart had left unbuttoned. It was so white, so pristine, all Salieri wanted to do was bite… NO! Salieri threw himself against the door he had just entered and shut.  
“Salieri?” It was the first time Mozart had looked at him all night. His eyes were but glimpses of reflected moonlight in the dark, and Salieri could swear that Mozart’s lips were fuller than he remembered them being before. “What’s the matter?”  
“I—uh—Nothing, nothing, I, just, um… forgot you were here.” He cleared his throat. “You startled me.” 'Idiot.'  
Mozart cocked his head slightly, exposing the soft skin of one side of his neck, and Salieri felt himself lean towards it, wishing he could touch it with his mouth…  
'Dear gods, what is the matter with me! I should not be thinking about Mozart this way!' “Er, yes, you can, uhh, you can sleep in here tonight.”  
“Isn’t this your room?” Mozart asked.  
“Yes, but I really prefer the guest room,” Salieri lied, reached behind him for the door handle.  
“Then why don’t you change the two? It’s your house.”  
“Haven’t gotten around to it…” He opened the door, his heart pulsing rapidly. “I hope you have a good night!” He could not have made it to the guest bedroom faster than he did, and he closed the door with a sigh of relief. Though something inside him longed to go back and take Mozart in his hands, bite his neck and lips, the distance quelled the urge and Salieri dropped down onto the bed, running his hands through his hair. “No. No way will I ever drink Mozart’s blood,” he vowed to himself in the dark room, lit only by the tender slant of moonlight beaming through the opened window.  
Apparently vampirism was not simply a case of mind over matter. Sure, Salieri told himself he wasn’t going to touch Mozart. In fact, he practically beat himself up trying not to. But something inside him snapped in the small hours of the morning and one moment he was sitting on the guest bed clutching the covers—like that would keep him there—and the next he was leaning over Mozart, his teeth sunk deep into the composer’s neck, blood washing over his tongue, Mozart struggling faintly beneath him. Salieri’s eyes widened, panic flooding back into him with every gulp of Mozart’s blood, and he threw himself away, glad that his room was still dark enough to hide him—mostly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cowering in the corner like a small frightened animal. Mozart wasn’t moving. 'Oh, god, I’ve killed him. I’ve killed him in my own bed.' This wasn’t how it was supposed to be—Salieri’s new condition was supposed to help him take his revenge on Mozart politically, not cause his untimely death under strange circumstances! 'Mozart will be my undoing no matter what, because the stupid idiot came to my house and I killed him in the middle of the night and now I’m as good as dead!' Salieri kicked the wardrobe to his right in frustration and got up feeling wretched. In all the time that he had experienced violent envy for Mozart, never once had the violence been aimed towards the Austrian, but against himself. He leaned over Mozart’s pale form and peered at the puncture holes on his neck—apparently the fangs were retractable—wondering that he had actually done that. It disgusted him. 'He was an annoying twit, but he didn’t deserve to die,' Salieri thought, turning away from the corpse and heading for the living room. There would be no sleep for him now, and he was too distraught to try. Instead, he picked up his violin from the chair whereupon he had discarded it and began to play it proper, a fast, violent tune, all his inner turmoil coming out into this song.


	3. Chapter 3

'What a weird dream…' Mozart thought as he sat hunched over a steaming cup of coffee at Salieri’s dining table in the early morning light. From the moment he had awoken that morning he had felt light-headed and weak, and had almost fallen down the stairs. He had decided he needed more than tea that morning, and thank goodness the cook had seen him moving unsteadily towards the sound of violent music in one of the ground-story rooms. She had offered coffee instantly, ushering him to the dining room and bustling away. Now Mozart had started to feel better, though he still felt mentally absent, and that bothered him. Suddenly the music from the other room stopped and moments later Salieri stepped into the dining room, his hands in his hair and his eyes closed tightly. Mozart watched him, wondering if Salieri knew that he was there—he had never seen Salieri do anything with his hands that wasn’t holding them at his sides or playing music. It was strange to see the Italian looking so… deranged. Mozart thought perhaps he ought to talk to him, so he started with the first thing his fuzzy mind could think of: “Was that you playing just now?”   
Salieri jumped so badly that he fell into the cabinet against the wall and knocked over two candle sconces and a glass bowl. “Mozart?” He looked as though he could not comprehend Mozart’s presence.  
“Yes?” Mozart wondered if perhaps Salieri had expected him to leave first thing in the morning? 'After all, he didn’t really have to let me stay the night, and we aren’t necessarily friends…'  
“You’re—you’re…” Salieri stopped leaning on the cabinet and walked around to Mozart, peering at him as though he really hadn’t expected him to be there.  
Mozart felt embarrassment well up inside him. Of course, Salieri had expected him to leave. “I’m sorry—I’ll leave—I’m sorry. Thank you. Thank you.” He got up, still feeling woozy, and bowed, which was a poor idea, for it resulted in extreme dizziness and his almost falling over. Luckily someone caught him—Salieri. He was still staring at Mozart like he couldn’t really comprehend him as he righted him and quickly stepped away.  
“Sorry?”  
“Yes. I—I just didn’t feel very well when I woke up, but of course that’s no excuse to impugn on your hospitality…”  
“What? No! No, I didn’t expect you to leave this morning.”   
Mozart blinked and said, “Oh. Um, thank you.” He looked at his feet, which made him feel a little dizzy, but he didn’t want to look at Salieri. He was so embarrassed by the fact that this experienced and favoured composer had now not only offered him a bed in the middle of the night, but now also corrected his manners and seen him in a weakened state.  
“You should probably not go today,” Salieri said suddenly.  
Mozart blanched—as much as possible, for he had been rather pale all morning. “What—not go to court?”  
“Yes. You aren’t fit.”  
Mozart crossed his arms like a child. “What, are you a physician now, too? You judge my music and now my health?” By the infuriated look on Salieri’s face, Mozart should have taken some more time to think through that response.  
“Fine. We leave soon, be ready.” Salieri turned and walked briskly away, and Mozart could swear he heard him muttering to himself in Italian.   
Salieri didn’t say anything to Mozart the entire carriage ride to the palace. He just stared moodily at the curtain he had insisted on closing in front of the window, no matter how many times Mozart attempted conversation. When they did finally reach the palace, Mozart exited the coach first, nearly falling when he did so from a wave of dizziness, and Salieri grabbed his arm. Mozart looked at the hand on him, steadying him, and said jokingly, “How fragile do you think I am?”  
Salieri glowered and withdrew his hand, leaving Mozart free to jump down, sniggering. The two made for the palace, and all through the walk to the audience chamber, Salieri stayed just two steps behind Mozart. Finally Mozart stopped in the middle of the hall and said, “Really, you don’t make a very good spy, Salieri.”  
“Wh-what?” The other man looked genuinely surprised by that comment.  
“When you follow someone, isn’t it the point to not let them know you’re there?” Mozart had turned to face Salieri now, smiling a little at how riled the other man seemed to be.  
“I wasn’t following you, I was walking with you.”  
“You were hovering. You’d make a better mother duck than a detective…” Mozart mused. He giggle-laughed when the image of duck-Salieri wearing a pink bonnet and apron came into his mind.  
“I wasn’t ‘hovering’!” Salieri snapped.  
“Yes, you were,” said Mozart, becoming serious again. “Salieri, I may not be at my best today, but you don’t need to follow me around the palace making sure I’m okay. I’m sure it’s not your fault; if anything, it’s the Weber’s fault. So, mother duck, walk next to me or go away.” He accompanied the last phrase with a smile, which was greeted with a sigh from Salieri who started walking, Mozart falling into step.   
“There. Now stop calling me a mother duck. It’s just weird.”  
Mozart laughed. It was so easy to tease Salieri—too bad he’d never had the chance before.  
They went into the audience chamber and made their appearance before the emperor, as was customary, making small talk with the courtiers alone the way. Mozart got separated from Salieri when a particularly powerful Count came up and began talking, obviously excluding Mozart. He left gladly—anyone that didn’t want to talk to him wasn’t worth his time. He had proven that he deserved to be here, and anyone that incredibly prejudice was no one in his eyes. Gone were the days when he kissed the feet of those who were rich enough to afford better shoes than his. It was a ridiculous thing to do, and refused to anymore. He would compose what he pleased and how he pleased, and it did not matter to him who loved it or hated it.   
“Maestro Mozart,” said Lorenzo Da Ponte with a nod.   
Mozart nodded back, hating the dizziness in his head. “Da Ponte.”  
“Are you feeling quite well?”  
“I’ve been better, but I’m sure I’ll get over it,” Mozart said, hoping he really didn’t look that bad.  
“We can only hope so. We wouldn’t want a tragedy to befall our new celebrity.”  
Mozart stared at Da Ponte as he drifted away to talk with Rosenberg. The words had been friendly enough, but he could have sworn there had been an almost menacing tone to Da Ponte’s voice just then. He shook his head slowly. No. Da Ponte may work with the traditionalists still, sometimes, but he had never been terrible like the rest, and he had even written an opera for Mozart just recently. Why would his demeanor change suddenly?  
As soon as he possibly could, Mozart escaped the audience chamber and went to the—usually—empty music room to work. On a good day being amongst the courtiers and all their prejudices gave him a headache, but on this day it was even worse, what with his lightheadedness. He sat down on the piano bench and ran his fingers delicately over the keys, just feeling them, hearing the notes in his head as his fingers touched each key. He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling the keyboard and placing his fingers for a chord. It didn’t sound right. He shifted one finger half a note up. Better. Now the other hand. No. He shifted a finger up half a note. No. He moved his whole hand an octave. Still no. He tried a different chord. “No!” Mozart opened his eyes and stared at his hands on the piano as though they were the ones betraying him and not his own mind.   
“Try a variation of D.”  
Mozart started at the low suggestion behind him. “Salieri?”  
“Just do it.” The Italian stood by the door with his arms crossed over his chest.  
Mozart turned back to the piano slowly, placing his left hand in position for the D chord and played it. He wrinkled his nose and moved two of his fingers up half a note and played it again. Perfect. “How did you…?”  
“I’m a musician too, Mozart,” Salieri sighed.  
Mozart heard some shuffling and assumed that Salieri had left. “’I’m a musician too, Mozart,’” he mimicked with an eye roll. “As if I don’t know that…”  
“Sometimes you act like you don’t.”  
Mozart jumped, accidentally pressing down on keys at random. In the fading out of the clashing sound of notes, he looked at Salieri and said, “I thought you left.”  
“No.”  
His face was so straight that Mozart couldn’t help but laugh.  
Salieri frowned.  
“Come, then. If you want proof that I know you’re a musician, help me write something.”  
“You want help…”  
“Yes, let’s compose something together.” Mozart couldn’t help but enjoy the look of confusion on Salieri’s face.  
“I don’t know, Mozart…”  
“Well, then, don’t complain that I don’t consider you a musician,” Mozart said, turning his back and grinning to himself when he heard the soft sigh and advancing footsteps.   
Salieri stood awkwardly by the piano, his hands behind his back. Mozart glanced up and patted the seat beside him. “Well, sit down, you can’t play from up there.” As Salieri slowly lowered himself, Mozart couldn’t resist saying, “And you wonder why I might think you’re not a musician…” This earned him a glare, which only made him smile more.   
“Right, what do you have in mind?” Salieri was seated on the very edge of the bench, as though he were completely uncomfortable and was ready to run off at any moment.  
“For you to relax. Goodness, it’s not like I bite, or anything.” Salieri’s eyes widened and the blood drained from his face, as though Mozart had said something terrifying. “Okay…” He turned back to the piano, hoping that maybe music would calm Salieri down. 'What is his deal? I mean, I knew he was uptight, but…' He played a few chords, not all of them sounding quite right, and then tried again, still not getting the melody he wanted. When he went to try again, a third chord resonated and Mozart glanced over.   
“Let me do this hand, you are sincerely struggling with it,” Salieri said, tentatively removing Mozart’s left hand from the keyboard, as though touching something poisonous or disgusting. He nodded at Mozart’s right hand, and Mozart played a chord. Salieri played one to match. They went on like that for a while, just playing random notes that didn’t really end up being a song, but at least Salieri seemed to relax the more they played—so much so that when Rosenberg walked into the room, Mozart physically saw him stiffen.   
“Maestros,” said Rosenberg, nodding to each of the composers. “I wondered if I might have a word with you, Salieri, if you’re not too busy?”  
“Of course.” Salieri stood with a sort of grace that made Mozart wonder if he practiced it at home. He nodded to Mozart, who nodded back (with a smile) and then he and the count left.   
Later, Mozart had still not managed to get anything quite right, for every time he started to hear notes in his head the row with the Weber and Constance’s betrayal forced their way into his mind. It’s like a blind man trying to paint a picture, he thought, slamming down the lid on the piano and getting up.   
“Still nothing?”  
Mozart glanced towards the door. “Oh, Salieri, it’s you.”  
“Yes, I thought I might come back and see how everything is coming.”  
Mozart stared at him, a little puzzled. He may admire Salieri, but they were not friends, and Salieri certainly didn’t admire Mozart. And this kind of attention went beyond just concern for physical health—which in and of itself was rather odd. 'What is wrong with him?' “Could be better.”  
Salieri nodded and said, “Well, if you’re not going to use that, may I?”  
Mozart stepped away from the piano, tripping over the bench slightly. Though he caught his own balance, the sudden change brought a wave of dizziness and he had to stand still for a moment to regain his presence of mind. “All yours!”   
Salieri sat down without another word and started playing what he and Mozart had played earlier, except the more he played, the more creative it became until it was a work of art instead of just a skeleton.   
“How did you do that?” Mozart asked after a moment. He had never had problems composing before; the notes just came.  
Salieri started a little, as though he had forgotten Mozart was there. “Do what?”  
“Take something so ordinary and make that.” Mozart waved his hands in the direction of the piano.  
Salieri turned around to face Mozart and said, “Well, that’s the difference between you and I, isn’t it? That I can think of something ordinary in the first place.”  
Mozart was not sure whether to feel insulted or proud or sympathetic as pertained to that statement, so he just nodded slowly and said, “Right. It sounds good.”  
“I agree.” Salieri sighed. “Come on, we’d better finish it.”  
“We?”  
“Yes. You helped write it—in a manner of speaking.”  
Mozart couldn’t help but grin in spite of the fact that Salieri had never been this nice to him and it kind of freaked him out. “Okay!” He sat himself back down, and for once, since the incident of the marriage contract, when he laid his right hand on the keyboard, his mind didn’t block off all the notes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Italian may be a little weird in this; I've only got the basics so I had to look some of it up.

It was such a strange sensation, composing with Mozart. Salieri had never thought he would ever let Mozart know that he actually like his music, much less make it with him. 'This vampire thing is having quite the opposite effect than I had thought it would,' he thought as he rolled up his sleeves. About an hour ago he and Mozart had taken off their overcoats to get more comfortable, and while Salieri still kept his distance in case he lost control of himself again, he had grown considerably more relaxed as the day carried on. “What if we did this?” He said, playing the previous measure and then going into the next one, trying out his idea.  
Mozart nodded along to the rhythm and then said, “Try this at the end…” He played a frivolous little series of notes that Salieri hated to admit sounded incredible, and it was certainly something he never would have thought of. “That’s—“  
“What’s happened?” Mozart suddenly grabbed Salieri’s arm and turned it over so as better to inspect the insides.  
'Merda.' Salieri had completely forgotten about the cuts on his arms when he decided to roll up his sleeves so the frilly cuffs didn’t get in his way. 'There’s a reason they were in the way. Merda merda merda.' He tugged his arm out of Mozart’s grasp and said, “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”  
“You have cuts all the way up your arm, don’t tell me that doesn’t matter, I’m not an imbecile,” Mozart said, brow furrowed with worry.  
Salieri closed his eyes, embarrassment and panic roaring through him with the blood in his veins. “I—just don’t worry about it, it’s none of your business.” He pulled his sleeves down and grabbed his coat. He pulled it on, straightening the collar, and then he stood up to leave, stopping only one last time to say: “And if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, you will deeply regret it.” He swept out of the room, wondering if he had sounded as threatening to Mozart as he had sounded to himself. 'Probably not—he doesn’t know that I can actually follow through with that threat… That I have it easily within my grasp to utterly destroy him, or that I nearly killed him just last night.' The very thought of Mozart laying deathly pale on Salieri’s bed made him shiver, and he clenched his fists by his side in frustration. Somehow the decision that was supposed to have made his whole life so much easier had made everything infinitely more complicated.  
For the rest of the day, Salieri avoided everyone by wandering around the gardens. Several times that day he wished he had his violin with him so that he could play the symphony assaulting his mind, but alas he did not and therefore had to submit to humming several measures when his mind completely refused to quiet. Eventually the sun began to set and Salieri thought he could take his leave for the day. He went back inside the palace to the audience chamber and paid his last respects to the emperor and other courtiers for the day. Just as he was heading for the door, he spotted Mozart and accidentally caught his gaze. 'Stupid boy still looks worried,' he thought, a strange mix of gratefulness and irritation coursing through him at the thought. Because niceties demanded it, Salieri approached Mozart to say the day’s au revoir and inquire as to whether Mozart was planning on going back to the Weber’s. 'I sincerely hope so,' he thought as he approached.  
“Maestro, it was quite the pleasure working with you today,” he said, shocked that it wasn’t a complete lie.  
“I thought so too!” Mozart seemed to be making quite the effort to be extra cheerful—perhaps to make up for Salieri’s cold attitude—but at least he also looked to be back to full health.  
Steeling himself for the answer, Salieri said, “I would like for you to know that last night’s hospitality extends for as long as you need to get used to your, er, situation.”  
Mozart’s eyebrows shot up. “R-really? Salieri, that—thank you. Thank you.”  
The sincerity in his eyes struck Salieri, and the offer hurt less than it had a few moments ago. “Of course. I am sure you would do the same. Well, then, until later.” He bowed, feeling sure that he would be seeing Mozart at his door that night.  
He was not wrong. In truth he would perhaps have been more worried if Mozart hadn’t shown up that he was when Mozart did. 'I just can’t have a repeat of last night,' Salieri thought, letting Mozart in and asking if he wanted dinner.  
“Oh, thank you!”  
Much as Salieri would have liked to, it would have been improper of him to leave Mozart alone at the table to eat whilst going off to play the violin, so he sat and made small-talk.  
“Did you get any more composing done?”  
Mozart nodded. “It’s getting back to normal… actually, would you quite mind listening to it and giving me your honest opinion?”  
Salieri bit his bottom lip guiltily. “Sure.”  
He expected Mozart to finish dinner, but apparently music was more important than nourishment, for the Austrian got up and asked, “Where are your instruments.”  
“Do you prefer piano or violin?” Salieri asked, standing slowly.  
“Either.”  
Salieri rolled his eyes and decided to challenge Mozart. He was sure that the music had been composed on a piano—so he would give Mozart the violin. “This way.” He went to his living room where he’d left his violin on the table, and picked it up, holding it out for Mozart.  
“Here.”  
Mozart took it and held it in place for a moment, his eyes closed. Then he played the first note, rest, second nose, rest, and then he really started playing. There were only a few measures, but when Salieri listened to them, he had the same overwhelming feeling of adoration and raw pleasure that he had whenever he listened to Mozart’s music. He loved it. He hated it. He kept his face straight so Mozart wouldn’t know.  
“Well?”  
Salieri nodded. “Certainly back to your old standard,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have to elabourate. It appeared he wouldn’t—Mozart beamed like a child as though that had been some sort of a compliment. 'He’s too confident,' Salieri thought sourly.  
“So, shall we finish the piece we were working on?”  
The question took Salieri aback. He hadn’t considered it a real composition—just something to pass the time. “Um, sure… The piano is in the next room…” He led the way with his hands behind his back, feeling increasingly more uncomfortable with Mozart’s nearness and apparent shows of friendship. 'I’m not supposed to be his friend. I’m supposed to be his rival.' And yet there Salieri was, sitting on a piano bench beside Mozart, preparing to compose.  
“I’ve had an idea.” Mozart’s eyes were wide and a little distant, but he looked happier and healthier—he must be recovered from Salieri’s accident, and music must be helping him ignore his situation with the Weber’s. “The transition between the first and second movements will include us using four hands instead of just two.”  
Salieri just stared at Mozart like he was mad. That didn’t make any sense. “On one piano?”  
“Yes!”  
Salieri did not know what to say. Though he had learned German style composing, this was completely outlandish.  
“Come on, let’s try it.” Mozart did not seem deterred by Salieri’s lack of enthusiasm; rather, it seemed to invigorate him to prove to Salieri that this could work. He grabbed Salieri’s hands and placed them on the keyboard, the contact causing Salieri to stiffen.  
Salieri tried to pull his hands away. “Mozart, this isn’t going to work, the keyboard is too—“  
“Nonsense, I want to try it!” Mozart said, gripping Salieri’s hands harder. “Please?” He cocked his head slightly to the side, and there was a childlike wonder in his eyes that finally made Salieri cave—that and the fact that he and Mozart were holding hands and staring intently at one another and he didn’t want any of his staff to see and get the wrong idea.  
“Fine.” He put both hands on the keyboard, but it was a tight fit with Mozart’s. “You se--?”  
“Play!” Mozart took off without Salieri, who sighed and jumped in on the next measure, but their hands were too squished that the music sounded awful and even Mozart had to concede that his idea wouldn’t work. “If these things were bigger, it would have worked,” he pouted a little.  
Salieri just nodded a little, for he still thought the idea was too much. In the silence, he became aware that one of his hands was halfway underneath Mozart’s—it had somehow gotten there in the disaster that was that attempt at musical innovation. Heat rising to his cheeks, he pulled his hands away and placed them in his lap, folded tightly around one another for good measure.  
Mozart noticed Salieri’s nervousness and laughed. “Why do you do that?”  
“Do what?”  
“Get all stiff and afraid every time I touch you?” Salieri felt Mozart’s knee press against his own and moved away quickly. “Like that!”  
“I simply observe the rules of propriety, which include minimal… touching,” Salieri responded, clenching and unclenching his jaw apprehensively.  
“No, but you get… weird. Like you’re afraid of touching me.” Mozart paused and then laughed again. “Am I scary, Salieri?” He teased, cocking his head further and waggling his fingers tauntingly.  
Salieri did a little exhale-laugh. “Hardly.” He looked away from Mozart being ridiculous and noticed the time. Was twenty-two hours when most people turned in for the night? He did not know—he usually didn’t sleep. “Oh, look at the time,” he tried anyways, standing abruptly. “I’ll be going to bed now, if you don’t mind.”  
Mozart glanced at the clock and then at Salieri with one eye-brow raised, but all he said was, “Okay, I’ll keep playing, if that doesn’t bother you?”  
Salieri gave a small shake of his head. “When you’re ready, you can sleep where you did last night.” With that, he grabbed his violin and made for the safety of the guestroom. Inside and alone, he felt tension melt away rapidly, and he leaned against the bed, looking into the mirror. He jumped a little and dropped his violin. Downstairs the melody Mozart had started playing faltered and hesitated, as though Mozart was considering going upstairs, but then it picked back up and Salieri sighed. Of course, Rosenberg had warned him that he would cease to see himself in the mirror as soon as his transformation had been completed—that being with Salieri’s first feeding. Still, it was rather alarming to look over and not see oneself where one should be. It was just another reminder of what Salieri had done to himself to keep his place of favour. He sighed and picked up the violin from the floor and placed it between his chin and his shoulder and began playing. At first, none of the notes made sense, and they were confused with the piano downstairs, but the more he played, the clearer the melody became, and it even started to sound like the piano and the violin played together in some strange distanced duet. Salieri lost himself in his music, playing until he felt completely calm, playing until he forgot the world around him. He twirled along with the music—not very gracefully, he had never been a dancer, but he couldn’t keep standing still while he played, and so it was that he accidentally twirled right into Mozart, knocking him over and landing on top of him. For a few seconds Salieri stayed there, catching his mind up to the situation, making sure the violin was okay. Then:  
“Mozart? Cosa stai facendo qui?”  
“What?”  
Salieri squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them again he seemed to realise that he was splayed out across Mozart’s body, one hand by his head, their faces just inches away. “Merda!” He scrambled away. “E ‘stato così vicino—oh, come mi vergogno…” He muttered to himself, setting down his violin on the dresser and hoping that the room was dark enough that Mozart couldn’t see the blush that gave colour back to his pale skin.  
“Well, I didn’t know you felt that way about me, Salieri,” Mozart said jokingly, getting up himself.  
“Non ce l’ho!” Salieri snapped.  
“Non parlo italiano,” Mozart said, his German accent terribly pronounced.  
Salieri took a deep breath and asked, “Was I?”  
Mozart nodded.  
“D’accordo, mi—I—I am sorry. I just... that...” He waved his hand at Mozart, still avoiding eye-contact.  
“Got you all flustered, did I?” Mozart’s tone of joking suggestiveness made Salieri blush even harder.  
“No—I—What are you doing in here?”  
“I heard you playing.”  
“So you just walked into my room?”  
“You didn’t answer when I knocked.”  
Salieri just stared at Mozart like he was crazy.  
“I thought it was good; I wanted to tell you.”  
Salieri pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 'He’s like a child.'  
“Also, if you wanted to compose alone, you could have just told me. I don’t want to infringe on your living style—“  
“Mozart. Stop talking.”  
They stood in silence for a while, Mozart looking uncertainly at Salieri, and Salieri trying to control his anger. Finally, Mozart said, “I’m just going to go…”  
Salieri let him. He was so embarrassed by himself and the situation and angry that Mozart would just walk in to the room unbidden—but mostly he was angry that Mozart had caught him being rude and vulnerable. 'It’s not really his fault, is it?'  
The front door opened.  
'Oh, merda, he’s being overdramatic again!' Salieri sighed and rushed down the stairs to the door, and out into the garden path. He caught Mozart at the gate, noting that this was the second time in two days that he had chased Mozart out the door to stop him from leaving. 'We have got to break this pattern,' he thought. Without much considering his actions, Salieri jumped in front of Mozart and removed his hand from the gate, grasping his shoulders. “Would you stop doing this?”  
“Doing what?”  
“Being so melodramatic.”  
“Says the one who communicates predominantly through mysteriously silent stares,” Mozart muttered, but Salieri could see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  
Salieri rolled his eyes and said, “I am sorry for lying I just… I’m used to living alone. So…” He realized in that moment that he was gripping Mozart’s shoulders and removed his hands instantly, crossing them over his chest. “Just… come back inside?”  
“Okay but you have got to loosen up.”  
“About what?”  
“Everything.”  
Salieri shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I’m not that uptight,” he mumbled, starting to walk back up to the house.  
“You really are,” Mozart said. “But don’t worry, I can teach you!”  
He grabbed Salieri’s upper arm with one hand and put the other on Salieri’s shoulder as though they were old friends, and there was laughter in his voice and on his face and for a moment Salieri kind of wanted to laugh along. But when he glanced over, he saw for a split second the exposed flesh of Mozart’s neck and the little instinctual tug scared him and made him recoil. It was not as strong as the night before—only a faint acknowledgement of what he had felt, but it was still there.  
They reached the door and Salieri reached out to open it, moving as far away from Mozart as possible, and Mozart said, “It’s not that bad, you know.”  
“What?”  
“Being close to other people. It’s not as bad as you think it is.”  
“Why do you presume to know what I think about it?”  
“I can tell by the way you act, and the way you push people away. You should try not to do that. Just try to be close with one person.”  
“Who, you?” Salieri laughed at the prospect, though he felt rather offended. Who was Mozart to presume that he knew Salieri’s heart so well?  
“Maybe.” He went through the door that Salieri held open, and when Salieri joined him inside, said, “I think I’ll be going to bed—for real.” He smiled and bowed his head. “Guten Nacht.”


	5. Chapter 5

That night Salieri did not eat Mozart. He took that as improvement, a proud fact that he had control over himself in that regard. However, he had still passed most of every hour thinking about Mozart to a point of obsession. And not even in a creepy I-am-a-vampire-and-I-want-to-drink-your-blood-wow-your-neck-looks-delicious kind of a way—he just thought about Mozart and his boundless energy and infective smile and sublime music and constant touching. By the time the sun finally started to peak over the horizon, Salieri had relived every grin and every moment of contact with Mozart so many times he had begun to question his sanity. 'What are these thoughts that plague me so?' He wondered as he stumbled down the stairs for coffee. 'I don’t understand why I am thinking of him in this way—it’s got to just be because he has been around a lot and I am not used to it. Yes. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why I can’t get his face out of my mind.'  
He entered the kitchen and sat at the table, waiting for his coffee, trying to think of anything other than Mozart. But of course the moment that he finally started to think of his most recent composition, Mozart walked in, yawning and stretching, his shirt—well, Salieri’s shirt—falling off of one shoulder and hanging loosely around Mozart’s skinny body. A strange tingling traversed Salieri’s body and he felt himself grow almost giddy-nervous. 'What the hell?'  
“Guten Morgen,” Mozart muttered, seating himself down across from Salieri.  
“Buongiorno,” Salieri replied, accepting the cup of coffee that his cook handed to him before placing a tray of sugars and cream down on the table and leaving to get Mozart coffee as well.   
“Did you sleep well? You look awful,” Mozart said.  
“Thank you,” Salieri responded sarcastically, still not sure why he felt so nervous with Mozart’s presence.   
Mozart waved a hand at Salieri and rolled his eyes. “I’m concerned for you and all you can do is be a sarcastic bastard—no wonder you have such a hard time making friends.” The cook came out and handed Mozart his coffee, into which he promptly poured cream.  
“I do not have a hard time making friends,” Salieri said indignantly, drinking his coffee. A little smile lit Mozart’s face, and Salieri realized that the Austrian was just teasing him. Feeling stupid, he looked into the dark brown coffee in his mug and wishing that he could go back to his room.  
“You make it too easy,” Mozart said with a laugh.   
Salieri still refused to meet Mozart’s gaze, which elicited a further chuckle from the other man. He felt rather more embarrassed than he thought he ought to be, but for some reason, the fact that it was Mozart doing the teasing rather flustered him.   
They passed a few moments in silence until Mozart said, “Salieri, can I ask you for a favour?”  
Salieri contemplated just giving a blatant response as he was wont to, but he figured he should tease Mozart back; why should this be a one-way street? “You are already staying in my home and wearing my clothes and now you ask for more?” He hoped he’d made his voice light enough—this wasn’t really something that he practiced normally.  
Apparently not, because Mozart looked thoroughly horrified. “I—you’re right, of course; how rude of me…” He averted his gaze from Salieri and seemed almost to shrink into himself, his brow furrowed.  
Salieri was horrified with himself. 'I’m never trying that teasing thing again!' He vowed, reaching across the table as though to touch Mozart, though the distance was too great. “No! No, Mozart, I didn’t mean—I was making a joke—I’m not—I don’t do it often—of course you can ask me a favour…” He couldn’t seem to articulate anything in his state, and he didn’t know how to communicate to Mozart how sorry he felt, which wasn’t really helped by the fact that Mozart’s very presence made Salieri unreasonably nervous.   
Mozart looked up though his eyelashes at Salieri, his brows raised. He seemed appalled at Salieri, which only made the Italian feel even worse. “I’m sorry—I won’t do it again—please can you forgive me—it was so rude—“ He would have continued to babble like that if Mozart hadn’t finally cut him off.  
“You’re really bad at this teasing thing, you know that, Salieri?” He didn’t sound spiteful, or even stern. Just a little exasperated. But he was smiling nonetheless. “So you will help me?”  
Salieri sighed and leaned his elbows on the table, his head hanging. He wanted to go back to his room even more than he had earlier he was so embarrassed with himself. 'Never again. Leave that idiocy to Mozart.' “Yes, what do you need?”  
“Could we, perhaps, stop off by the Weber’s today on the way to court? It’s just that I haven’t got any clean clothing with me, and yours doesn’t quite fit…” Mozart pulled the collar of the shirt up to cover his shoulder, but it just fell back down. “And anyways, I am sure that you don’t want me wearing your things.”  
'And it was even a reasonable request,' Salieri thought, feeling his embarrassment mount. “Of course we can.” He finished his coffee and headed for his room, under the pretence of preparing himself, just so he didn’t have to face Mozart anymore. He did not understand how, but in some way he felt his emotions more acutely with that man around and it scared him.  
Some time later the coach pulled to a stop outside of the Weber residence and Mozart sighed. “Okay…” He seemed hesitant to go in, and he had a sour look on his face.  
“Is there something the matter?”   
“I just, I’m trying to figure out how to act,” Mozart said.  
“What for?” Salieri didn’t see the problem.  
“Well we did have a massive argument last time I was here which resulted in my storming out,” he said as though that should explain it.  
Salieri did not understand, though. “But it is still where you live; are you not allowed to come and go as you please?”  
“Well, yes, but what if I run into one of the Weber’s?”  
“Ignore them?”  
“That’s what you would do,” Mozart said, mildly amused.  
“Exactly. And it works splendidly if I don’t want to deal with anyone. Watch.” Salieri sat back and stared at the wall above Mozart’s head, waiting for him to leave.  
“But, Salieri, I’m not you,” Mozart objected.  
Salieri just stared at the wall and twiddled his thumbs, willing Mozart to get the hint.  
“I can’t just ignore people—I am actually personable.”  
Salieri just clenched his jaw. He refused to take the bait, though that was a low blow, even for Mozart.  
“You’re such an ass,” Mozart muttered, sighing despondently one last time before opening the door and sulking up to the house.  
Salieri watched him out of the corner of his eye and chuckled to himself. He sat in silence for a long while waiting for Mozart, and when the Austrian finally did emerge from the house, it was with a large bag in hand, clothing hanging half out, walking quickly and shouting over his shoulder at a woman in the doorway, who threw yet more clothing out after him. With the least amount of grace that Salieri had ever seen in a person, Mozart climbed into the coach with his bag and fell against the seat, still shouting out at the woman. Salieri called for the driver to get going and the coach lurched into motion, carrying Mozart out of ear-shot of the Weber residence. He finally fell back against the seat with an angry exhale and glowered at the window.   
“You didn’t take my advice,” Salieri said after a few moments.  
“I tried.”  
“You failed.”  
“She started throwing things at me.”  
Salieri chuckled. “Ignore her harder.”  
Mozart glared at Salieri. “Is this why you ignore people in the first place?”  
“Hmm?”  
“So that you don’t have to go through this?”  
Salieri looked away from Mozart, for he truly did feel quite bad about the situation. “Maybe…” He said, twitching his lips a little in a smile. He saw Mozart roll his eyes and sigh loudly, but a small smile touched his lips as well, which was exactly what Salieri had wanted.  
They hardly saw each other at court that day; both were kept quite preoccupied—Mozart with whatever he did, and Salieri with Rosenberg. It seemed that that day was not only court issues, but also further instruction on vampirism.   
“Today’s lesson: feeding.”  
“Seriously—today, Rosenberg?” Salieri hissed as he climbed into Rosenberg’s personal coach. “Wouldn’t I have died already?”  
“You’ve fed?” The count looked terrified.  
Salieri seriously did not want to recount the story or tell Rosenberg exactly who he had fed upon, so he just muttered, “You know… Raw meat…” He was terrible at lying; it did not make sense that he had made it so far in court.  
Rosenberg gave him a suspicious glance, but said, “Well, in any case, no, but you weren’t showing any signs of hunger so I left it alone for a while. Anyways, you have to learn sooner or later, so why not today?”  
Salieri rather felt like a child with all this talk of learning to eat again. It felt silly, and he did not want to go through it, but there was no telling Rosenberg no when he had his mind set. Besides, he did need Rosenberg to show him an appropriate food source, because Mozart was not it. “Alright, let’s get on with it then.”  
On the way into town, Rosenberg talked the whole way about who was and wasn’t an appropriate target. Salieri only halfway listened as he looked out the window and thought about how much more he enjoyed Mozart’s company.   
“…obviously we can’t use anyone in the court or potentially connected to it, because if they remember it that could be detrimental to us. So we must go after people who don’t really matter…”  
Salieri tried not to laugh at Rosenberg’s implication that if someone wasn’t at court they didn’t matter. It was such an arrogant thing to say, but it was pointless to correct him.   
“…easier during the day for the most part because everyone is just walking around waiting to be taken as opposed to when they shut themselves up at night…”  
'Yes, because they are actually afraid of monsters like us,' Salieri thought, appreciating the irony. The bumping motion of the carriage grew more violent when they passed into town and the dirt road became cobbled stone and the trees became buildings and the flowers became people.   
“…market is ideal because of the crowds and the many alley-ways out…”  
'He is the perfect courtesan,' Salieri thought as Rosenberg kept talking about how to successfully hunt in the market. 'Put on a good appearance au milieu du foule while in fact everything he does is to mislead some pour soul toward their demise and his gain. Perhaps that is why he is such a good vampire. Or vice versa.'   
The coach stopped near the biggest marketplace in Vienna and the two men descended. “We must appear to be on a level with most of them; or at least not of a much higher status,” Rosenberg said as he straightened his overcoat and began walking towards the market, walking stick clacking against the cobble stones. Salieri walked after him, feeling rather less nervous than he thought perhaps he ought to. In fact, he felt relatively calm considering he was about to hunt down some commoner in the middle of the day to drink his blood. His only source of discomfort was in that he would much rather be back at the palace composing with Mozart than spending the day with Rosenberg. 'When did that change?' Salieri wondered, weaving around a pair of women who had stopped to chat.  
“Now, this is really not a difficult process if you are observant, which you are,” said Rosenberg. “You just have to pick someone easily persuadable or gullable.”   
Together they wandered around the market, looking like they were just a little too important to be there, but not important enough to leave. They discussed court politics in low tones, both covertly watching every person around them. Suddenly, Rosenberg pointed his stick discreetly towards a young woman in a blue dress who looked to be losing a haggle with the fishmonger—or rather, was unaware of the ridiculous price that he was making her pay. “Sweep in, get her attention, and steal off with her,” Rosenberg instructed.  
“What, you’re not going to show me first?”  
“It is really not that hard, and you obviously can’t watch very closely or she would get suspicious, so just give it a go.” Rosenberg started pushing Salieri, who rolled his eyes and approached the girl and the fishmonger, rapidly attempting to formulate a plan in the two meters he had. When he reached the girl he sort of just stood there for a moment awkwardly, wherein the fishmonger said, “Can I ‘elp you sir?” His hand was held out to receive the woman’s money, which was incredibly too much for the fish she was buying.   
A sudden inspiration hit Salieri and he said, “Actually, I came to help the fräulein. I noticed in passing that you are asking her to pay far too much for this fish—it must only be worth but half the price.” 'And even that is stretching it,' he thought, disgusted by the fishmonger.  
Apparently the fishmonger felt the same way about Salieri, for his face turned quite red and his mouth twisted into a grimace. “You fink so, do you? An’ what makes you fink that you ‘ave the righ’ to judge my fish, eh?”  
Salieri smirked and replied in a condescending voice, “Look at me. Do I look like someone who wouldn’t know the difference between which fish are of good quality compared to excellent quality?” He held out his hands slightly so that the fishmonger could take in his court attire.  
This only made the man grimace more, but apparently he was afraid of arguing with someone of visibly high standing, so he addressed the woman: “Jus’ ‘alf of that, then.”  
The woman recounted her coins and paid with a glare, which the fishmonger returned in kind. Then she moved away from the stand and addressed Salieri: “Sir, that was so very kind of you to help me.”   
Salieri nodded his head, folding his hands behind his back, and replied, “It was unfair of him to do such a thing.”   
“Even so, dankeshön Herr…?”  
“Salieri.”  
“Herr Salieri. That does not sound German.”  
Salieri motioned for her to walk with him, pleased that she was making this so easy on him by initiating further conversation. “No, I am Italian. Well, I was born and grew up in Italy.”  
The girl made a little noise of surprise. “How came you to Vienna?”  
“I met someone… A friend… He thought I would like it here,” Salieri said, loath to discuss his backstory with this girl, and afraid to share any detailed information with her.   
“And do you?”  
They had made it very close to the edges of the markets, and Salieri turned his steps casually towards a little alleyway, staying silent for a moment, thinking about the answer. “Yes, I like it very well,” was the obvious response in this case, but her asking had indeed made him seriously consider whether or not he did. True, he was better off here than he had ever been in Italy, and it was here that his career had taken off, and here that he had “friends”. But the more that he thought about it, the more he realised that he hadn’t considered Vienna to be anything special the entire time he had lived there. He could easily have gone off and lived anywhere else and been just as happy as long as he was composing. Until now. For some reason the thought of leaving Vienna made him unreasonably sad. Stupidly, he asked himself why, and found the answer in a measure of music—the song he and Mozart had composed to amuse themselves. His heart rate picked up. 'Mozart? What?' He shook his head slightly as though that would set his thoughts straight again.  
“You don’t like it?”  
Salieri had almost forgotten that the girl was there. “Oh, yes, I do. Excuse me, I was um, just shaking some hair… out of my face…” He said, very aware of the fact that there was not a single strand of hair out of place. 'I cannot believe that I’ve survived court so long…'  
“Oh… Well, I am glad that you like it here. Me, I’ve never left the city…” She started in on her own backstory uninvited, which Salieri was content to let her do, for it made his job easier in that she stayed willingly with him while he concentrated on steering them towards the alley and planning out what he was going to do once they got far enough down it. He also managed to spot Rosenberg moving through the crowds casually, watching Salieri from a distance. He caught Salieri’s eye and nodded once approvingly. Salieri looked away and kept moving; he felt uncomfortable in this sort of conspiratorial relationship.  
“Where are we going?” The girl suddenly asked a few moments later. They were deep enough into the alley now that the light had grown dim due to the buildings blocking out the sunlight, and the market was well behinds them. The place was deserted but for a stray cat trotting along beside the wall, and nearby there was a crevice in which Salieri figured he might hide her body if indeed that was what he had to do.  
“Honestly, fräulein, I had just been wandering, and was so entranced by your story that I had rather stopped paying attention,” he said, mimicking something he had heard several men use to charm women when he was a boy in Italy and they hadn’t known him to be near to their private places. 'Those years are finally paying off.'   
The woman’s blush was so violent that he could see it even in this bad lighting. “Oh, I—I’m hardly that interesting,” she muttered.  
“Oh, but you are,” Salieri said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as flat and awkward as he felt. He gently touched her collar bone, her neck. It was not like Mozart’s—thin and palest white except in one spot where it was red from playing the violin so often—it was soft and thick and feminine. But after two days his mouth was watering—he needed to feed, and here was a perfectly willing specimen…'Well, willing enough anyways…' He leaned forward, his eyesight narrowed, and he could feel her startle, heard her start to protest. He covered her mouth and pushed her against a wall, holding her head back, stifling her screams and exposing her neck and all of his senses dulled to her distress and his body moved seemingly of its own accord and the only thing that mattered was his teeth piercing her thin flesh and drawing blood into his mouth to energize his famished body.  
When he regained full mental capacity, Salieri was standing over the young woman’s body which had slid down the wall and now lay awkwardly upon the ground. He used the inside of his black overcoat to wipe the blood off his face and off the girl’s neck, and he bent down to check for a pulse. There was one—only faintly, but still. It gave him small comfort, for the sight of her body laying down in front of him, deathly pale, and knowing it was he that put it there, still made him sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes and muttered a short prayer asking for forgiveness for what he had done, and when he opened them, Rosenberg was there.   
“The first time is always difficult,” Rosenberg said in a vaguely sympathetic voice.  
'Difficult… That is an understatement,' Salieri thought ironically, remembering the absolute disaster that he had been when he thought he had killed Mozart. He shivered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a little short and that it was so long in coming! Christmas vacation gets busy when you have been living in a different country from your family and friends!

That night Mozart and Salieri returned to his house together, which both pleased and irritated Salieri. He was glad to be back in Mozart’s company, certainly, but what he had done earlier haunted him still and he feared that Mozart would somehow guess what he had been up to. 'Since when do you care what Mozart knows about you?' Salieri demanded of himself as he stared out the window. 'Since I became a vampire and it mattered that people knew that, obviously. It’s not specific to Mozart,' he tried to convince himself. And it was true that he didn’t want anyone to find out about his… condition, for it would be highly detrimental. But his worry about Mozart finding out was different: he did not want Mozart to think him a terrible person. 'Oh, but why? What does he matter more than the others?'  
“I’ve thought of a beautiful composition today while discussing a commission with the emperor,” Mozart said suddenly.  
Salieri clenched his jaw; he knew what the commission was, and had thought for sure it would be going to him. Jealousy raged inside him, especially when he thought that Mozart deserved it, for his musical talent was spectacular. “A commission? His majesty must be quite taken with your work.”  
Mozart shrugged and said, “Yes, I suppose so, but my composition…”  
He kept talking, but Salieri did not really listen; rather, he stared at the strange young man across from him and wondered how it was that he had received a commission for an opera and cared little for it, but would rather discuss an ordinary piece of work. 'Is he joking? Can he really not care, or is he not talking about it for my benefit..?' All of those thoughts served only to further enrage him against Mozart to the extent that when the coach stopped outside Salieri’s house he exited and went straight to his room without a single word or glance at Mozart.  
Unconsciously he had gone to the guest room, but did it really matter as long as he was away from Mozart? Besides, less chance of Mozart coming in here unannounced anyways—hopefully. Inside this darkened corner Salieri paced, his jealousy invigorating him and turning his blood into unforgiving and all-consuming flame, which he imagined vividly as exploding from every orifice in long grasping tendrils which would smite anyone who came too close. In his fevered state this vision reminded him of the apostles when they were consumed by the Holy Spirit and given the gift of tongue to praise God on High; but this was no holy fire which engulfed Salieri, no flame of praise and goodness, but one of malice and vengeance. Outside his window a movement caught Salieri’s attention and he went to it, peering down into his carefully tended garden. There he saw Mozart walking—well, walk-skipping, as Mozart does—down the gravel path which weaved harmoniously around the bushes and flowerbeds and which fell under the relative shade of a large tree. Salieri watched Mozart step off the path and place himself at the base of the tree with several pieces of parchment and a quill. There he sat embedded amongst the roots as though he were one of them, taking energy from the Earth herself and sprouting up alongside one of Nature’s own, alive and glowing, each stroke of his pen on parchment a new leaf, each measure a new bud ready to bloom, each line a branch reaching ever further towards the heavens. Mozart’s thoughts and song exploded upwards in beautiful tendrils of harmony and melody while inside and looking down Salieri’s thoughts writhed and snapped out sideways to suffocate anything that might surpass them. Grinding his teeth together, Salieri closed his eyes so he did not have to see Mozart making something divine, and then he heart it: the faint sound of Mozart singing the notes as he wrote them, a sound that the window failed to keep out. 'O, merda, que sa musique est sublime!' Salieri put his face in his hands and turned away from the sight, but the sound was relentless, divine perfection. 'This is driving me crazy,' he thought, stumbling away from the window and running into the mirror. He regarded it, seeing only the empty room behind him rather than a pale, deranged visage, a figure in all black pulling his own hair and drowning in an internal, skull splitting cacophony of self-hatred. 'I must look like everything I despise—everything from which I had hoped to flee! Everything that I have done, everything that I am, kills me!' In a moment of crazed impulsion Salieri punched the mirror that he would no longer have to look at what he had become. Pain flowed up his arm from the source, his broken and bleeding knuckles, and pooled into the rest of his body which welcomed it. He fell to his knees, head down, eyes squeezed shut, hands to the floor, pressing into the shattered glass. Compelled further by mindless impulsions, Salieri wrapped his fingers around one shard of glass and lifted it, staring intently into it as though hoping to see his reflection, but to no avail. All he saw was what his faults had made of him, that his own spirit was his enemy, devouring is very being. He gripped the shard so tightly that the edges cut into his palms and bright crimson blood leaked down the empty glass like the tears that leaked down Salieri’s face. 'My whole being is blasphemous, for Mozart’s music is celestial, yet I seek to destroy it. I seek to destroy everything full of love and life.' Unconsciously he lowered the glass to his still-healing forearms, point pressing into his pale skin, drawing fresh notes on the scarring score of his greatest heresy, imprinting upon himself the very violence of his envy. 'I call myself a musician, but I play without coming close to touching beauty as HE does; perhaps because I have given my nights up to death in return for a chance to ruin Mozart.'  
Wrapped in his own torturous disharmonies, Salieri did not hear himself shout in anguish, did not hear Mozart stop singing, did not hear his footsteps on the stairs or the crash of the door opening wildly. Only when callused fingers pried the bloody mirror shard from Salieri’s maimed hand did he come back to his physical senses and begin to see what had come to pass. The first sensation to hit his mind was the pain from his hands and arms and knees, soon followed by the tingle of Mozart’s feather touch upon Salieri’s upper left arm and bleeding right hand. Gradually he came to feel Mozart’s warm breath on his cheek and hear the tone of concern that accompanied it, then he saw those eyes, child’s eyes, staring intently at Salieri under brows scrunched in worry. And then he felt his shame and embarrassment and fear: gut-wrenching fear because what was Mozart doing here, so close, when Salieri was so low? He wrenched himself from Mozart’s grip and fell back into the bed. Shaking hands gripped the post and he hauled himself up, shying away from Mozart, who stood and stepped closer to Salieri, hands extended.  
“Stop, no get out,” Salieri said weakly, taking two steps back for every one Mozart took forwards. “Get… get out…Stop…” His words echoed in his head strangely, like his mind were separated from his body by a large distance.   
Mozart just shook his head and kept coming. “You are not well, let me help you.”  
“I—no. I’m fine…” Salieri stumbled into the night table by his bed and gripped the edge to keep himself up. He closed his eyes for a moment to try to get himself under control, and when he opened them Mozart stood before him with hands on both of Salieri’s shoulders. The soft touch sent a shiver through Salieri that he couldn’t quite suppress or understand. He wanted to fall into Mozart and let him take care of him, to feel Mozart’s touch and know he was safe. 'But what is that?' Salieri’s senses screamed at him. 'Where the Hell did that come from?' Involuntarily, his body responded to the gentle pressure of Mozart steering him to the bed, and he sunk onto it, watching through tunnel vision as Mozart removed the white lace cravat from around his neck and press it onto Salieri’s bleeding forearm.   
“Okay, don’t move. Don’t.” Mozart disappeared from the room and Salieri sat there on his bed, shame creeping through each and every limb so that he wanted to rip his skin off to escape the feeling. How many times now had he embarrassed himself in front of Mozart? 'Not that I’d be less horrified if it had been anyone else…' Salieri tried to tell himself as the floorboards outside the door creaked and Mozart came back in with a bowl of water and a rag. He knelt down before Salieri and took his hand. Salieri flinched at the touch, but Mozart just held tighter—apparently he wouldn’t be taking any of Salieri’s weird propriety shit. He was surprisingly gentle in spite of the fact that he was one of the least graceful and most sporadic people that Salieri had ever met, and he worked diligently in silence at cleaning Salieri’s hand. When he started on the forearm, he said, “What happened?”  
“I… well—“  
“The truth.” Mozart looked up at Salieri and for the first time Salieri had the impression that he was looking at a 26 year old rather than a child.   
“I punched the mirror…” Salieri admitted sheepishly, afraid to tell Mozart of his deepest feelings.  
“Why?”  
Salieri pursed his lips and looked down, watching Mozart wash away his blood with careful dabs. He was not deserving of this kindness after all the steps he had taken to see that he would be able to ruin the greatest composer ever to live.  
“Salieri.”  
He looked up at Mozart.   
“Why.”  
“I couldn’t bear to look at my reflection.”  
It was Mozart’s turn to avert his eyes. After a few more moments he said, “That silly.”  
Before Salieri could ask him to elaborate, he abruptly left with the bloody water and spoiled rag, and did not return. Instead, Salieri’s housekeeper came to bandage his wounds. She said nothing, and did not even look at Salieri until she reached the door on her way out: then she but glanced back over at Salieri and pursed her lips, shook her head, and sighed.   
“What?” Salieri asked a little defensively.  
“He really cares, you know,” she said, and she too left before Salieri could ask her to elaborate.


End file.
